Green Eyed Apathy
by SunstreakersGlitch
Summary: Tweek Tweak is nearly invisible. The bullies see him, but no one else remembers the "twitchy kid". Until Craig Tucker. They used to be friends, can they start over? Slash.
1. Eye's open wide

**Disclaimer: **Dude it's math. Owning Tweek Tweak = Love/Happy/Joy. I am not singing from the rooftops. What the hell have i subtracted?

**Warning: **Slash, Pain, Bullies, Cigarettes, underage drinking, Promiscuity, CartmanClydeToken-Bashing, PLOT(Seriously dude i have one!) and Language...Its fucking Craig Tucker dude, Really?

**Summery:** Tweek Tweak lives alone, no one likes him, most people don't even notice him. Tweek used to wish someone would save him from this Hell. Years to late Craig Tucker makes a reappearance in his life. Is it to late for Tweek to be saved? Who really needs saving?

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><p>The apartment door slammed into the frame and the lock clicked shut automatically. The blond boy left standing in the doorway was frozen. Normally when someone was standing completely still it would be an unremarkable fact. Humans <em>stopped<em> sometimes, nothing monumental. It would be a normal scene.

Would be.

If the blond boy _wasn't _Tweek "Twitch" Tweak, the only human vibrator.

Tweek didn't _do_ still.

Tweek was a caffeine addict, he was an insomniac, he had severe ADD. He was a great many things but calm, collected and _non-moving_ were not among those things.

Tweek was motion, at the very definition. His entire body always seemed to be subtlety trembling. His eyes blinked rapidly and constantly. His fingers twitched and interlaced, hands most often clutching his coffee thermos or winding in his shirts hem. His arms tensed and released, wrapping around himself sometimes. His hair even seemed to puff up and flatten like a cats on occasion.

The point being, the unnatural stillness was _wrong._

Tweek took in a deep breath through his nose, trying to steel himself. The shine of his eyes betraying deep sadness in the green depths.

And then he dropped.

His jean-clad knees hit the ground and his hands landed palm-down supporting his upper body. He looked like a much beaten dog with his head hanging down low, golden blond hair obscuring his face. Deep keening sobs tore their way up his throat and a trickle of blood wound it's way down the back of his neck.

A small copper patch had already dried in his hair.

Tear's made their way slowly down his cheeks, creeping from his stinging left eye; swelled shut and already bruising a deep purple. The knees of his lose jeans were ripped wide open, but he didn't even feel the scrapes grounding into the floor as his hands clutched desperately for comfort in the carpet.

His body still wasn't twitching beyond the vague shudder when a particularly hard sob clawed it's way up his throat.

He couldn't _breath_ through the tears, couldn't gather air beyond the lump in his throat. His heart had long since been numbed to this, but it still felt like agony when he thought to hard about it. He should be used to it.

It didn't matter.

One more year!

That was all he had left in this hell hole. He _could survive a fucking year!_

He tried to think around the pain. But as always he was left, beaten and wallowing in the sting of rejection, prejudice and hatred.

Why did they hate him?

He twitched, so what?

He liked coffee, and?

Sometimes he was a little panicky, everyone has fears!

They didn't even know the really important things.

No one knew how he was living on his own, in a crappier apartment than the McCormick's could afford.

No one knew he'd been kicked out of his house by parents who have never wanted him anyway.

No one knew his was a faggot.

No one knew he sometimes carved up his wrists to get some relief from it all.

No one cared though.

He was a fucked up freak to them. So what if he had it hard? He was still fare game.

These were his best friends once. He used to hang out with Cartman, used to have sleep overs with Token and Clyde.

Not everyone picked on him, no he wasn't that important.

Some people didn't punch him like Cartman. Not everyone would whisper and snicker behind their hand's when Tweek fell because Clyde had stuck his foot in the aisle again. A few people didn't sigh and shake their head's when Tweek couldn't answer the teachers, even though he knew the answer he just couldn't _say _it because what if he got it wrong and the teacher kicked him out of class and they studied for the most important test of the year and they needed to pass this class to get into college and he failed and had to stay in this apartment forever working at a crappy gas station till he was shot in a robbery- and oh, Jesus the _pressure_.

Sometimes they didn't even look at him.

And sometimes that hurt the most.

When people stood aside and never even acknowledged the bruises, the beatings and the belittlement. When he'd been to the office to change his number and address and contacts, the secretary hadn't even raised an eyebrow at his lack of emergency contacts. It was just Tweek, it was just accepted that he had no one.

The he _deserved_ this.

Cartman was right to hit him, mock him. Clyde was in the right to punish him with black eyes, brusies, slamming his head into walls and lockers.

Because his clothes were wrong, not even buttoned right. Because he was a little eccentric. Because he was worried about everything. Because sometimes the pressure was to much. Because he saw more than they did.

It never mattered why. It didn't matter if it were a legitimate or fictional reason. All that matter was that he was different.

South Park citizens should be more tolerant, you would think at least. The shit the whole town had went through in his youth, the resident Dead-and-alive-for-dinner-boy, the Transgender-homo teacher and all the other crazy things should have made them accepting.

But that was all in the past. South Park had settled down in the last eight years. Nothing remarkable or unique happened. Kenny didn't even die anymore. And it seemed as though the whole town wanted to keep It that way. Nice and boring.

And there he was.

A twitchy reminder of all the weird things of the past.

The adults didn't even _pretend to like him._

His right eye squinted open, still burning from tears and hurt. Staring at the slowly soaking wet spot of slightly browner carpet he made a sound, finally. "_nygh"_ Disgusting.

He sat back onto his now folded legs and sighed deeply. His pale, thin hands coming up to run down his face. "Ahh" he hissed when he pressed to hard on his swollen left eye. This was pathetic.

It was routine.

He would come home to his crappy little apartment, cry, then promise himself not to let them get to him again.

It never worked.

Picking himself up he walked to the bathroom, the only real room in the apartment and washed his face. He had to be to work in half an hour and it was a ten minute walk.

Looking at his green eyes he wondered how much longer he could take it. The pale face in the reflection didn't seem to think it would be much longer.

The gas station he worked at was as familiar as his home. It's two walls with drink refrigeration, Beer and Soda, The long rows of candy and oil. The counter with Cigarettes and lottery tickets. It was a safe place.

Here he was nameless, faceless gas station attendant. No expectations and no pressure. No bullies and no stares for his freakish twitches. This side of town the customers assumed he was high and didn't ask questions.

He relaxed as he leaned with his back to the counter, staring at the packs of nicotine and sipping heavily on his Styrofoam cup of coffee. He was back to subtly trembling as his right hand twisted in his hair. Long fingers digging in at the roots and running up, twisting the locks around his hand and repeating. His head was moving slightly in a swaying motion to the rhythm of the music.

Bully, Three Days Grace had a sadistic sense of irony and almost every song could relate to him. He loved the deep thrum of the bass, the harshness of the drums. Sure sometimes he was still startled by some of the more unexpected moments, but all in all the music was calming. Nothing like coffee of course, he mused taking another deep sip.

He heard the jingle of the door open just a bit forcefully, but he didn't turn. He was still unwinding from school, the bullies, his life. He'd only been in the store a few minutes and wasn't really ready to have to face the contempt of another customer sneering at his jittering and quite voice and flinches. Jesus, they would _stare _at his bruised eye and the cuts on his palms.

Besides since their was a camera, and they had a sign that _said so_ he doubted the person was about to pull a gun on him. He tightened his hand on the Styrofoam mug of coffee anyway, it was pretty hot and he had some amazing reflexes.

A deep cough startled him into jumping. He didn't hiss when the almost-boiling coffee poured down his hand, but he did mutter a quite "O-oh Jesus fuck.."

A voice deep with amusement said "I'm not sure Jesus _did _fuck. But all the same, can I get some camel light 100's? and I got ten in gas, I'm the silver bike"

Setting his coffee down carefully he grabbed the cigarettes and turned saying softly "That will be 15.68 please." Before his eyes locked with shocked grey ones.

He knew those eyes, deep grey and always apathetic. More importantly he knew that hat. Blue chullo with a ragged yellow pompom on top.

His eyes widened and the Camels slid from nerveless fingers onto the counter top.

"C-craig." He croaked in horror. Craig wasn't a bully, he didn't hurt Tweek. But more than once Clyde had socked him in the gut as Craig stood watching, a smoke between his lips and no emotion in his cold grey eyes.

He was one of the people who could care less.

Actually Tweek had never thought the boy had enough emotions to _not care _as confusing as that thought was.

That didn't matter though. Tweek looked quickly outside, his eyes catching sight of the auburn head of hair near Craig's silver bike and he almost vomited.

His trembling limbs shuddered more violently as he worked the register as quickly as he could. He didn't look at Craig or out at Clyde again as he tried to get the transaction _done._ But fate wasn't on his side.

The bell signaling someone entered rang loudly in the tense silence just as the receipt printed.

Tweek didn't think.

He heard Clyde's voice asking "Dude, what the fuck is taking so long? Let's go, Token's already eating man."

But he was already crouched and trembling behind the counter. Clyde couldn't know where he worked. He needed this job. He couldn't handle it if Clyde was here and beating him up, tracking him home, and ruining this safe place as well.

He heard Craig's grunt of surprise before he said "Get the fuck out Clyde, I'm almost done."

Clyde apparently wasn't happy with that because he asked "Dude, I don't even see a cashier, can we just-"

"Fuck off Clyde."

Clyde huffed but the door opened and slammed shut.

Tweek waited a moment, but he only heard Craig's breathing and his own rapid heartbeat. He stood slowly and ripped the receipt out of the machine. He handed it mechanically to the other boy, still not looking at him and whispered as clearly as his could.

"H-Have a- Nyug nice d-d-day." His face on fire with embarrassment.

Craig didn't reply. When the door closed again all Tweek could do was watch Craig strap on his helmet and drive away, all the while praying Clyde wouldn't find out. After all Craig was one of the people who didn't participate in "Torture Twitch" right?

The rest of his shift was uneventful. A few other customers bought snacks and gas. Mostly this side of town and this area was unpopular and rarely visited.

He locked the doors at one thirty and walked out into the night with his thermos of coffee clutched to his chest. He didn't mind the late hours, even if it weren't a Friday he wouldn't be sleeping any way. Better to be occupied.

He hated the dark. He always had. The things that normal people knew were in the dark but didn't worry about bothered him enough, but worrying about serial killers, rapists, clowns, evil gnomes and bullies left Tweek with a phobia for the dark.

He'd always slept with a night light, or left his hall light on back home. His parents said it was a waste of electric and therefore money, but he thought it had saved his life more than once. So he loathed walking home in the broken up light of the street lamps. He felt that there was enough space between the lights for something to get him.

A sudden sound had him backed to the nearest lamppost and staring wide eyed at the single headlight bearing down on him. He was frozen, as frozen as he could be with his whole body shivering. The deep rumble of a motorcycle filled the silent street air and Tweek found himself whishing it was a serial killer.

The bike eased it's way into the lamp light, a sleek silver cat prowling the night. The lean boy perched on it was alone, but that didn't settle Tweek's heart rate.

He tried to ask a question, maybe 'what are you doing' or 'where is Clyde' but he couldn't speak above the terror and blood pounding in his brain. The silver machine jerked to a smooth stop and for a moment Craig shadowed face stared at Tweek.

Tweek had almost decided running home might be his best bet when Craig stood. His jean clad legs straddled the bike as he turned and unfastened a helmet from on saddle bad. A thousand thoughts raced through his head in the minute it took Craig to turn around.

_What is he doing? Is he going to kill me? Is Clyde waiting. Is that Clyde wearing Craigs face? Is our government advanced enough to sell human-skin suits yet or is this all intergalactic already?_

Each thought more wild than the last in his panic. And then Craig spoke.

"Get on."

Tweek stared. Confusion beating down the panic for a moment. "What are you talking about?" he asked in the most level voice he'd used all day.

Craig threw the helmet a Tweek, causing his thermos to go crashing to the ground and Tweek to clench his teeth painfully as he caught the heavy object.

"Get on the bike. I'm driving you home." Craig seemed content with his words because he sat back down on the motorcycle and appeared to be waiting for Tweek to join him.

Tweek, having retrieved his coffee, simply looked at Craig again.

"Yo-you can't be serious! That, erk, D-d-death trap? No f-fucking way man! Do you have any, any idea how many th-things could go… nyug… wrong?" Tweek's voice was raising and becoming steadier as he went into full panic mode.

"Oh Jesus, oh fuck man. You could tilt to far to one side and we'd fall over, I could fly off the back. My leg could burn on the metal pipe, your hand could cramp just when we get to a stop light and then we'd run head first into simi-truck and be smashed flat and….and…oh… J-Jesus fuck. You're laughing!"

Tweek's voice was indignant and he uttered an embarrassing squeak. Craig Tucker was laughing at him. His day couldn't get worse.

"Tweek, how in the fuck can you live if all you think of is the worst? Get on the goddamned bike, I promise we'll both live."

Yes it could.

"N-No!" Tweek shouted.

Craig didn't listen and kicked his kick stand out to come over to Tweek.

"Listen, just put the helmet on. Nothing bad will happen. I've had the bike for over two years, nothing has ever happened." Craig's voice was low and he took the helmet from Tweek's hands slowly.

He then put it on Tweek's head and strapped the chin strap. As Craig guided him to the hulking silver menace he asked quietly "W-Where's you're helmet?"

Craig laughed again. "And give up my hat? No thanks man."

Tweek found himself placed on the back end as Craig hefted the bike back straight and straddled It again. Craig turned his head, his grey eyes locking with Tweek's panicked ones behind the visor.

"Put you coffee in the right saddle bag and wrap your arms around me." Craig's voice was once more the emotionless monotone he used at school and Tweek hastened to obey.

When his thin arms wrapped lightly around the older teen's torso Craig growled. Reaching one hand backward he dragged Tweek's thin body flat against his back and hissed

"Tight, 'less you wanna fly off." Before he turned the key and they were going so fast Tweek almost cried. Whimpering he pressed his self as far into the warmth of Craig's back and tightened his arms until his elbows protested.

Psychological torture wasn't anything new for him, but this was an original play on his fears that was almost artful. Emotional scars always hurt more than stiches even. It was why a beating from Cartman hurt a bit less than Clyde's, because Clyde knew him – one at least. And that was why it mattered, maybe to no one but Tweek, but still.

He was whimpering and uttering nonsense prayers to a god he hated and promises to a devil that delighted in his torture – he just wanted it to be over.

And suddenly it was. He opened his eyes to find them at a red light. No over, postponed temporarily.

Craig's monotone voice called to him again.

"What is your address by the way?"

"App-Apartment 6-c. C-chaney Street, gah." He whimpered before they took off again. Sailing across the roads with no restrictions what so ever, it was truly mind numbing terror. Tweek hadn't even thought before he spoke, he should have lied. Why would you tell people where you live when people _are out to get you?_

He was an idiot.

The ride that felt like eternity must have been about five minutes in reality. But Tweek scrabbling for his Coffee Thermos and shaking like a leaf was pale with horror. Why had he ridden that- that thing!

Craig chuckled as he removed the helmet from Tweek's head but it stuck in his throat as he met wide terrified green eyes. Swallowing he locked away. "Come on, it wasn't that bad. I got you here alive didn't i?"

Tweek evaluated himself. He did appear to be in one relatively functional piece. For now.

"Wh-what do you gah, want C-craig?" his voice was defeated, causing Craig to turn and examine his face more closely.

"I just wanted to give you a ride home. I know you used to be like afraid of the dark. I was gonna walk you to your door, if that's ok."

Instead of answering Tweek turned and walked up the stairs to the third floor of the ramshackle apartment building. It was nothing much to look at. White wash stone peeling in places, rotten and dead plants on the railing, stacks of trash and cans bowled over in the alley to one side.

Craig frowned before donning his apathetic mask once again and fallowing.

Just as Tweek opened his green apartment door Craig had found his way to the third floor. Tweek looked over his shoulder and sighed in irritation. It looked as if he had no choice but to play whatever game Craig wanted.

He left the door wide open behind him as he wandered into the kitchen portion of his one room. He pulled out a plastic bag of ice kept frozen for such instances, frequent as they were, and placed it on his eye, before stumbling into one of his two kitchen chairs.

_Lucky I went ahead and bought two. Even if Craig wasn't the first person I'd like sitting in them._ He found himself thinking bitterly.

He leaned back and tilted his head up, pressing the ice into the swollen eye until he felt a reassuring ache. "Wh-what do you WANT C-craig?" he asked his voice tired.

Craig still stood in his doorway though, in mild shock.

His gaze swept from the refrigerator humming in one corner beside a sink, the tiny two person table and the neatly made be in the other corner. The whole room was as clean as a person could make a twenty year old apartment, but was empty.

"Do you live here alone Tweek?" Craig's voice had fallen back to monotone. Inside he was swirling with emotion's he couldn't name.

An uncharacteristic snort came from Tweek and he removed the ice pack to look over at Craig in the open door. "Who want's to li-live with a , _nuyg_ f-freak like me?"

For reasons Craig was studiously ignoring, something tightened in his chest at those bitter words. He was absolutely sure that phrasing wasn't Tweek's. And he was positive someone had told him that often enough to make it stick in the fidgety blonde's mind.

Pushing those thoughts away he closed the door softly and wandered to the empty kitchen chair. He didn't speak as Tweek seemed content enough to ice his eye in silence. He wanted to ask why the boy hadn't done that earlier.

Instead he looked over the smaller boy.

He was truly fragile, even with his arms around Craig on the bike the pressure had been almost nonexistent. Nothing like Clyde's strangle hold that made him fight to breathe, the hold had been almost looser than his thirteen year old sisters.

Tweek's blond hair was wild and a mix of honey blond, yellow blond and platinum. With those wide impossibly green eyes and bushy hair his small face seemed even narrower with a tiny button nose and small pouting lips.

His clothes were generic, a green tee-shirt that seemed a size to big with an over-large black button down, miss-buttoned to hang to far on the left. His jeans were baggy and hung over the tops of his brown low-top converse. All lending to the image of his helplessness.

_It's no wonder he's picked on. Fuck. He practically screams 'protect me'._

Just then Tweek opened his green eyes and squinted in appraisal at Craig. The boy had the most peculiar look in his eyes as he looked over him. Tweek found himself flushing slightly and he jerked hard to the left of his chair as he began running through all of the awful things Craig might want to do to him while he had him alone.

_He could kill me of course, no one knows where I live and I doubt anyone would ever suspect Craig Fucking Tucker was in my house. He could want me to do his school work, but we only have two classes together and I think most people assume that since I cant answer questions in class I'm stupid. He might want to steal all my money, Gah, as if I have any._

Deciding to end the silent staring contest, due to the fact he thought Tweek might run away if the terror on his face was really, Craig coughed lightly and motioned to the ice-packed black eye.

"Uh… Who got you?"

Tweek flinched inward and made a small whimpering sound as his train of thought was broken. What in the bloody hell did the boy mean, got you?

"W-wh-…What?" Tweek forced out through his frozen lips, followed by a "Gah!"

His hands were twisting and clenching, one buried in his hair and one still pressed against the ice pack. He wished desperately he had started a pot of coffee when he'd arrived, but with the pressure of having a guest he'd forgotten. Tweek shuddered, what if he never remembered to get coffee again? What if Craig had somehow forced the ability to make coffee out of him? What if Craig was acting on the orders of the governing body of intergalactic terrestrial species and was here to make sure he never got to drink any caffeine ever again?

Tweek couldn't handle the direction his thoughts were going. He tugged extra sharp on his hair and shrieked "Don't make me fo-forget my COFFEE! Gah, oh, _Jesus._ Please let me, eek, drink coffee, I don't think I co-could handle the _pressure _without coffee!"

Craig's emotionless mask didn't even flinch, though inside he was utterly confused by the blonds words.

Tweek wasn't even looking at him. He'd stood up, dropping the ice pack and had both hands fisted in his hair and was in a full blown rant.

"Oh god, oh Jesus. If I didn't have coffee I could never stay awake again and then, gah I would _sleep._ If I go to sleep, oh, oh, oh Jesus fuck, man I would die. They could find me and abduct me just like dad used to say. I'd be an experiment and it's to close! Fuck, I'm so close. One year, Jesus, one year and it's not even a full year! I'll be out of high school and I can leave and get a job somewhere out of South Park. I can't live through all these beatings with out it, oh, fuck. Coffee is like the only reason I get up in the goddamned morning. If I never leave the house I won't graduate or go to work and I'd die here in this place. Where no one care and I'm surround by fucking idiots and people who used to be nice and my parents live here and fucking hell, I'd be dead in South Park. Don't take MY COFFEE!"

Craig was mildly impressed with how little stuttering was in the entire rant, but he was concerned about why exactly the blond thought he wanted his coffee. Personally Cigarettes were enough for him.

"What?" was the only moderately intelligent thing Craig could think to say.

From the deeply patronizing look and raised eyebrow, coupled with a quick blink and more hair tugging, Tweek did not agree.

Taking a deep breath Craig tried to explain. "No I mean who gave you that black eye man?" his voice trying for monotone and completely exposing not only his exasperation but his embarrassment.

Tweek froze momentarily but then darted back to his seat and slumped back closing his eyes.

"Well….."

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><p><strong>StarGuide2011<strong>


	2. Speak easy

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><p>"Well…." Tweek began but found himself trailing off as he tried to figure out what to say.<p>

Who had given him the bruise?

It was a toss up between Eric Cartman and Clyde Donavan, he couldn't be sure. That was what he wanted to say. He didn't dare though, Craig might think it was flippant.

He remembered walking into the bathroom, even though he knew better, just after the last bell. He was so sure no one would be there; school was over for Christ sake. He'd just entered when he heard the hateful voice of Cartman.

"Well, well, _well."_ The larger boy had sang. "Look at you! Twitch decided he was coming in _our bathroom_?"

"Oh no, we can't have that!" the mocking shock in Clyde's voice caused Tweek's head to whip around to face him.

A whimper escaped as he tried to edge back to the door. Clyde noticed and darted forward, shoving him hard and making his head slam into the tiled bathroom wall. And, _oh Jesus fuck! The germs what could be on a nasty public bathroom? Oh, oh, oh. Better what isn't in here._

His head bounced forward and hit the wall for a second time when Clyde's hand moved to his throat.

Cartman had moved forward and was now on Tweek's left. His fist had been raised, his pudgy face alight with glee. Tweek's gaze moved between both pairs of pitiless brown eyes and uttered a terrified, a _resigned_ " Oh jesus"

and then a fist had caught him in the side.

After that the rest of the beating was a haze of pain. He remembered a clenched fist impacting his eye, but not who had done it. He had been in too much pain by then.

He remembered being dragged by a fist full of his own hair out onto the parking lot, worried they would take a piece of his scalp out with the force of their dragging.

He remembered being shoved to the ground, smacking his knees and stomach into gravel outside of the school gate, Feeling the sting of blood as his pants ripped at the knees. A knee in his back, grinding his flesh into the stones.

He remembered almost blacking out with the pain as a heavy handed smack landed hard across the back of his head.

He remembered the vicious laughter. All the students yet to leave the parking lot, the school, for the day as they watched Twitch get beat up. How funny they though his blood and pain was.

He remembered people, people just standing watching, eyes averted of full of feigned sympathy. They were so disgusting. Standing and watching and he hated them for it. They didn't care.

But he could not recall who's hand had left his eye swollen and discolored.

"You can't remember?" the disbelieving voice of Craig asked.

Tweek's eyes were closed now and he just shook his head, it figured Craig could read his mind. Maybe he should have an aluminum helmet.

Craig on the other hand, not being able to read minds in the least, had heard Tweek speak his last thought out loud and found himself shocked. His eyes roving over Tweek's body again, this time checking for other wounds.

Who was so frequently beaten down that they simply could not remember who had given them a bruise? What else, what was _worse_ than his eye, had to have happened for him to simply not notice who's fist hit him _in the face_?

He felt a sick ache in his stomach as he found his eyes drawn, horrified, to Tweek's eye again.

Tweek's voice was the normal low, slightly terrified of everything, sound he was famous for. It was so _normal._

"I-it was either Eric, Eric Cartman or… Oh Jesus! You don't want to, to know. It doesn't matter. Shouldn't matter to you, you. Gah."

Carman. The fatass little sociopath, anti-Semitic, bully, lying little shit at nine. He'd grown up even _more_ fat and _more _violent. That wasn't a surprise. Craig was almost surprised he hadn't thought of it himself.

Almost.

He'd come to the realization, standing in a gas station connivance store, after staring at the back of a blond head of hair with a faint copper patch that he now found himself wincing in sympathy of, that he'd never noticed this kid before.

He could vaguely recall hanging out, video games, Red Racer episodes and sleepovers with an over-caffeinated stuttering little blond named…. Something.

It had taken the entire dinner at City Wok's Chinese restaurant, with a huge bill footed by Token, for him to put a name to the bruised and battered blond.

Tweek Tweak.

And then, with the name, hazy memories of classes at school, Math and English maybe, Lunch times spent glaring at the questionable food. Seeing a blond all by himself. So small and bland that no one really looked at him.

Craig recalled the boy's wide and terrified eyes, had they been so green and _defeated_ then, as Clyde tripped him down the front stairs at Park County high. The boy hadn't looked at the students milling down the stairs with any sort of plea for help, but acceptance.

A boy bullied one too many time, shoved so often, beaten down so hard that he knew no one cared.

And before he knew what he was doing Craig found himself on his bike, leaving a pissed off Clyde to get a ride home from Token. Driving over to the bad side of town, a place filled with despair and druggies.

He stopped his bike in an alley behind the convenience store and waited. It had been pitch black when he arrived, nearly ten at night and he waited hours. Never once thought to go home, he just needed to see the kid again.

To prove maybe, that Craig _had_ seen him.

Some misguided need to vindicate himself, prove he could see the kid. That the kid existed and _was._

And then in the very early hours of the morning he had watched him lock down the store. He'd watched the slim boy practically run from each yellowed circle of artificial light created by the street lamps to the other.

He'd only wanted to see.

Really.

But the boy was so…helpless.

He looked so frightened going from each light to the next, so scared each time he stepped out of each circle, like he thought this time he would die.

_Like he needs to be protected. _Craig thoughts whispered to him.

So he'd once again thrown caution to the wind and driven up to the boy. Met his frightened green eyes in the shine of his headlights. And demanded he accept a ride home. Any other person in South Park would have leapt at the chance, sold their soul, in fact he thought some of the creepier girls might have done _anything_.

Not Tweek.

No, Tweek didn't want Craig to kill him on it apparently. He didn't trust Craig. And for some reason that bothered him. It should not have. Tweek had been beaten down for years. He had no reason to trust anyone, let alone Craig.

He'd had to remove himself from the bike and drag the boy onto it.

Now he sat in the run down, empty, lonely apartment of Tweek's and found himself realizing – painfully – that he wasn't the only person who didn't see Tweek.

No one noticed him.

Wait.

That wasn't true.

"Motherfucker." He said quietly. Bulling fag's like Eric-Fucking-Cartman saw him, and they hurt him.

"Who else?" his mouth had formed an ugly snarl as he forced himself to ask.

He really _didn't_ want to know who had hurt the innocent blond. Didn't want to be disillusioned about someone in South Park he might be friends with. Did _not _want to think a normal person, someone not like Eric Cartman, would hurt anyone this helpless.

At the same time he had to know.

The two options were warring within him and he decided, just because he was a pussy and didn't want to know, meant nothing. If Tweek knew the vicious side of someone he knew, in a more personal way then Craig would, then it was only fair to listen.

He didn't know why he felt that way either.

Some more misplaced guilt for a buddy from eight years gone?

Too strong.

He felt a nagging urge to _save and defend and protect _this twitchy boy. He felt like he deserved to serve penance when the most he had done was ignore him. Others deserved retribution not him. He wasn't a cocksucking bastard who beat up some one as tiny and defenseless as Tweek.

So he asked.

He did not expect Tweek's answer.

Craig heard Clyde's name fall from the blonds thin pink lips and everything else ground to a halt.

Clyde was beating up Tweek?

He was torturing Tweek.

Craig didn't know what was happening; about ten hours ago he'd been eating with his two best friends and having fun. Now he was in a rundown apartment with someone who was being tortured by his best goddamned friend.

Tweek's actions earlier were now much more understandable.

Earlier he had assumed that Tweek ducking behind the counter to hide from Clyde was embarrassment, or maybe a little quirk of his. Now he could see it for what it was. The boy was hiding.

He was so frightened of Clyde he was hiding.

Did it matter?

Clyde was his best friend.

So his moral compass didn't exactly point north. So he was a bit selfish and self-centered. He might complain and whine and beg rides, but still he was Craig's best friend.

Someone he could rely on, well not exactly. Someone he had so much in common with, like beating up smaller kids in his free time? Someone he cared for and who cared for him…. As long as he was paying for lunch and giving rides to school.

Fuck.

Clyde was a bulling shit, like Eric Cartman. Clyde Donavan was on the same goddamned level as the neo-nazi Eric goddamned Cartman.

Tweek flinched visibly and stuttered to a stop of his run-on sentence when he saw Craig's disbelieving face. Assuming he was to blame he flung himself once more off of the chair and stood against the wall, hands brought defensively up in front of his chest. A whimper escaped, a completely terrified sound that had nothing to do with his twitching.

"I-I-I-I'm, I'm Sorry!" he cried out.

The words tumbled over themselves in his fright and he began to tense and tremble in preparation of whatever Craig planned to do to him.

_Great. Lovely. Fan-fucking-tastic. If he wanted me dead before now he's going to want me to suffer! I should have known better. Clyde is his friend. I know that. _Tweek thought feverishly.

_You used to be his friend too. _His treacherous mind supplied helpfully.

Another whimper escaped his throat when he heard the scrape of a chair.

"I'll…. I think I should go." Craig said quietly.

Tweek didn't look up until he heard the door open. Craig stood in the open doorway, the glow of streetlights silhouetting him. His tight leather jacket, black shirt, black jeans and thick biker boots combined with his down turned head made Tweek think of more horrible things. Those boots could crush his head, easy.

But Craig simply whispered "I'm sorry."

Before he was gone, Tweek left in shock staring at the closed door.

_He's sorry?_

* * *

><p><strong>StarGuide2011<strong>


	3. Not For Long, The Future is Coming On

**Disclaimer&Warnings: **Put what ever you want here. XD

**Me-to-You: **Craig only. His weekend sucks basically. Next chapter is Tweeky's weekend, gonna be sad making. Not very long. Sorry it took for ever to post.

**Read it and weep shorties!**

* * *

><p>Craig Tucker was an apathetic person, normally. Most things in his life weren't enough to get worked up about. Being to angry, too sad or happy was to much work. Emotions were complicated and upsetting. He was honestly better off as the emotionless sociopath.<p>

He stared at irate teachers asking him questions he _did not_ fucking care about. He flipped off anyone who irritated him. He wasn't into violence, too much work for his lazy ass. Non-confrontational by simply not caring was his norm.

Sure he liked stuff, Red Racer, Guinea Pigs, hanging out at parties. But none of it meant much to him. He did not emote.

Not right now.

Craig Tucker was one pissed off motherfucker.

After returning home from Tweek's crappy apartment, and a freezing half-hour ride filled with confusing turbulent _emotions_, he'd checked the clock and found that it was three in the morning. He'd tried to sleep, he really, really had. He'd taken a shower, pulled on some boxers and laid under his warm blue comforter and willed himself to sleep.

But too many thoughts were spinning in his head. He was having an emotional overload.

His thoughts went something like this:

Tweek, protect, guard, fix, help, protect, why, confusion, holy-fuck-what-am-i-doing-i-don't-even-_know_-this-kid.

Cartman, kill, murder, bastard, fatass, needs to goddamnd die.

Clyde…

And he couldn't think anymore.

His brain committed suicide every time he tried to approach that line of thinking. All in all he was confused and he did not like it.

He knew Clyde was had obviously done some awful things and he was most definitely not some one that Craig could be around anymore. At least not with out him committing murder.

And as Craig was a sensible sort of person who did not want to end up 'Big Daddy's' bitch anytime soon, he had a problem.

The better part of his night, what was left, was spent in the circular pattern of thinking. Clyde is a problem now, Clyde doesn't know this, Token doesn't know this, Clyde was my friend, Clyde beats up Tweek, Clyde is a problem….

The pre-dawn grey color was creeping across the black sky when he finally groaned and rolled over to sleep. Forgetting the problem for now might be his best bet. He had until Monday before he really had to face it at all.

So when his alarm clock blared at eight thirty in the morning, Craig awoke from two hours sleep thoroughly pissed off. He dressed and ate his breakfast, toast dry, and headed to work.

Still pissed.

Ultimately he had gotten next to no sleep and solved nothing.

His only co-worker was an emo girl named Red. They'd been in elementary school at south Park together but he never bothered to get to know her. Or any female for that matter. He preferred limited contact with the fairer sex. Their screechy voices and constant talking tended to grate on the nerves he didn't have.

Speaking to one of them was a sure fire way to crack his emotionless mask.

Red was mostly a sensible sort of girl, slightly tom-boyish and quite while she worked behind the desk of the video store. Unless Bebe or Wendy came in. Thankfully that was rare. Most often she kept to herself, speaking to Craig only when she needed him to man the desk or get something for her.

Today she wasn't quite as smart as normal.

Not that one could blame her per-say. Craig Tucker normally had a blank face that could beat a corpse at poker. That Saturday he happened to come in like a storm cloud, a deep scowl etched on his features and his mouth turned down.

Honestly, as any self respecting female when faced with a handsome _upset _boy would do, she asked what the problem was.

And persisted.

Craig for his part held his composure rather well. After a night of little sleep and huge revelations he managed to ignore her pestering for a full three hours. Craig found his reserves were tapped out and he snapped, exploding when in normal circumstances and irritated non-verbal fuck off would have been dealt.

"Would you shut your fucking face you stupid whore! Goddamn it, when did I ever indicate I wanted anything to do with you? Who gave you the fucking idea I needed any _slut's_ help? We are not friends we are not acquaintances even, fuck I go to great lengths to _avoid_ your bitchy ass." He shouted across the counter into the face of a stunned Red.

A moment later Red was recovering and he could see he mouth about to open. He stormed up to her side, towering over her his grey eyes spitting fire and he hissed out in a painfully clear voice.

"Back. Off. Bitch."

He did not need some pushy skank trying to analyze his feelings. He did not need her to reassure him. He really did not need her to smile in sympathy or pity.

Her brown eyes began to well with tears as Craig's own narrowed. A cough behind him made him turn to face his manager.

"Craig I think you might need to take this weekend off. Go home, get some rest and come back Monday night with a better attitude." The man stated calmly. His beady little eyes and come-over of black hair making him one of the least intimidating figures Craig had ever seen.

It wasn't a hard decision. The guy who gave him his pay check had basically caught him verbally assaulting his co worker. Craig was just thankful the guy didn't give a shit about Red, only about potential customers.

Closing his eyes Craig nodded. Going home until this shit was sorted out was probably his best bet. His mother and father had left him and Ruby for the weekend any way; as long as he avoided her he would have his much needed thinking space.

Arriving home he was happy to find his sister had taped a simple note to the refrigerator, with the gayest cherry magnet ever, explaining she would be spending the week with some friend of hers. It also said for him not to bother calling, she'd blocked his number on her cell. Opening the refrigerator he found a mostly empty carton of orange juice and grabbed that. Armed with some chips from the cupboard as well he made his way to the family room.

In the family room, or the den if you were being technical (Craig hated this particular name as it made him think of the holes animal's sometimes dug to _sleep in_. And calling a room no one ever slept in by the name den was just wrong on some fundamental level.) the Tuckers had one massive couch made of faded grey fabric soft with use, stained brown carpet and the largest entertainment system seen In south park outside the Black's house.

Craig put in 'Casa Blanca' and proceeded to mindlessly munch his food.

Nothing was simple anymore, he concluded. Back when they had all been kid's it had been easy to laugh at cruel thing's. Back then it had been easy to go along with bastards like Cartman rather than draw attention to yourself. Sometimes they hadn't wanted to follow through on the underhanded schemes or ruin people's lives, but after the Scott Tenorman issue no one really opposed him.

And gradually more and more power was given to Cartman and any other's who had the strength to grab it. Craig himself had been officially labled 'the badass' after several instance's of flipping teachers off when they sent him to the office, numerous detions for disrespect and being caught smoking In the eighth grade.

To Criag it seemed a bit fucked up.

He gave teachers and authority figures his middle finger when they sent him out of the room because he couldn't be bothered trying to come up with excuse or to argue the sentence. He received detentions for disrespect when he fell asleep in class, couldn't answer questions and in more notable instances told the teachers he didn't give a shit about school. Craig had decided to smoke because it was something he could do to mellow out.

Smoking gave him an edge to his calm that as a child had been missing. He had begun smoking in the sixth grade, one of the few things he had tried not to get caught doing. He'd made it two years before a teacher found him crouched behind the school soccer field with a half lit camel. Within a week the rumors had circulated and kids were giving him awed looks.

It was during this time Clyde became a 'Jock' and Token one of the popular kids. It must have been during this time Tweek had drifted from their group, or been pushed. Being labeled as one of the weirder kids in South Park was no mean feat.

Craig wished he could remember what had happened or why Tweek had stopped hanging around with them, perhaps figure out just when, exactly. It seemed most of his memories of the blond boy were from afar after the fifth or sixth grade. He had gradually been less and less present in Craig's life until he had simply become wallpaper.

He'd seen Clyde bully him before his very eyes, he'd had years of classes with him, watched him shake and heard his panicky rants. But to him it was white noise. Tweek was so present and predictable that Criag had been blind to him, looked through him in so many ways.

Life simply was much too complex.

Halfway through the film Craig stopped thinking.

He would wait.

He was done.

Really.

Monday he would play it by ear. He knew Clyde and Cartman had to be stopped. He knew Tweek needed help. He didn't have a plan for exactly how he would fix it all but sometimes opportunities presented themselves.

Definitely waiting for Monday.

* * *

><p><strong>StarGuide2011<strong>


	4. Put it in A Buddha Bong, Two Foot Long

**Disclaimer: **Waaaaaaaay back. Like pages ago. If you're still reading this fic under the delusion i'm Trey Parker... more power to you?

**Warning: **I know i mentioned Slash and stuff but did i say anything about possible implied and actual drug use? Cause it's in this chapter. So. No drug-hating i don't read that crap people should read this chapter. Except the Drugs are kinda important in the long run.

**Mene: **Tweek's weekend. More procrastination, a tiny bit of history, and not much forward movement.

**R&R. **

**Seriousleh, you don't wanna be the next scott tenorman do you?**

* * *

><p>Another crash echoed outside, followed closely by screams. Tweek burrowed deeper into his bed sheets, his small frame wracked with shivers.<p>

It had been over twelve hours since Craig had left his apartment. It was Saturday morning and Tweek hadn't been able to close his eye for more than a few blinks. His heart was beating an anxious tattoo against his ribs and his lip was bloodied and torn from his chewing on it.

He was terrified.

It wasn't so much that someone knew where he lived; it wasn't even that it was Craig himself. Though the fact that Craig was friends with one of his lead tormentors didn't exactly help things. It was the fact he had let someone in his apartment.

His _sanctuary_.

He'd claimed this apartment, shabby and empty as it was, as his own. And now he had allowed it to be violated. He knew it was unclean now. He couldn't ever get back the untouched feel that had left him safe and wrapped in a blanket of security.

This apartment had been his haven. Some place to be able to let down his guard. A place he would not fear for his life or health. A place he could sleep.

Sleep had been so rare for him. A combination of paranoia and unreasonable fear and caffeine keeping him alert at all times. He feared sleeping pills to much to try them and most other holistic medicines didn't help.

And then, after the unpleasantness of how he had gotten his own home, he had found solace. Two sweet years of solace, now broken.

* * *

><p>It was two weeks after he had turned sixteen when the catalyst occurred.<p>

Tweek had always been twitchy and spastic in the worst of ways. Unable to keep still in any situation. He blinked in nervousness. He twitched in surprise. His movements followed his ever erratic thoughts and were sometimes misconstrued due to his surroundings. Outside stimuli wasn't always a trigger. His shrieks and twitches couldn't always be liked to reality and that lead to others finding him weird from an early age.

Ever since he could remember he had been able to see what others could not, from innocent underwear gnomes as a child to vicious beasts and monsters as he aged. Sometimes noises others couldn't hear sounded in his overactive imagination. Others he would see a simple shadow morph into an imp from hell. His world was one of no constants.

He was a boy who thought to much. A boy who worried about the smallest things.

He saw the worst in any situation and how it could turn foul.

He saw more than any other the negative points of a situation. He researched statistics and accidents. He learned of all the obscure illnesses. He knew the real disasters and the ones he imagined. His list of conspiracy's was almost a hundred pages long.

When he was four his parents did the worst thing they could.

They gave Tweek coffee.

Coffee was bad for you. It yellowed your teeth. It stunted your growth. It was highly caffeinated and impaired sleep. It made you hyper and jumpy. It was _addictive._

And Tweek was addicted.

With all the caffeine in his system he found his days lengthened and more stressful than before. By the time he was nine he was a nervous wreck, twitching and jumping at shadows. Some days he refused to leave his house to worried about government satellites following his movements and androids shooting him on the streets. He slept very little, three hours a night on good nights, none at all some nights. The sleep he managed was fitful and haunted; the slightest sound could send him awake in an instant.

The friends he had made when he was younger, when his quirks weren't quite so damning, slowly began drifting away. He certainly didn't keep them or even try to. Having to worry for other people was entirely to stressful. So by the time he hit ninth grade he was a nervous wreck, an overly short, scared of his own shadow, friendless ball of paranoia.

High school was awful.

The crowded halls, filled with mocking students and bullies and bodies pressed together was an ordeal to walk through. The harder classes, where he felt the pressure bearing down on him to do well, or else he would fail and if he failed he wouldn't graduate and he would have to live with his mom and dad forever, stuck in perpetual metaphorical hell, drove him to the brink of his sanity.

It didn't take long for him to crack.

He spent the entire second week of his freshman year locked in his room, receiving coffee only through a cat-flap he had installed in the door himself. With no food and no sleep and no one to care, he got desperate. Searching the web he found all sorts of ways to relax. Some of them were frightening and others he didn't understand how they could help him relax, some seemed like they would make him panic more.

And then he saw 'Herbal Remedies'. A site entirely about Marijuana and its effects. Entranced he read. Nothing bad seemed to come from it, the website de-bunked so called myths about weed and explained in great detail how it could mellow you out.

It sounded perfect.

The first thing he did that Saturday was walk to Kenny McCormick's house.

Everyone in South Park knew this side of town was bad, the poor people and the drug dealer lived here. Not that south park was quite big enough to have an actual homeless population, just the welfare and food-stamp kind of poor people, like the McCormick's. From his house, in the business district above Tweak Bros. Coffee house, the walk took about forty minutes.

Tweek used the entire time to think of scenarios of what might happen if he actually smoked the weed.

He might have a bad trip, end up shooting himself and his parents wouldn't even bury him because he was a filthy crack whore, like Mrs. Cartman. He might get busted by the cops and sent straight to prison, then he would get raped and become someone's bitch and they would own him. He didn't think he would make a good pet at all, was he even considered house trained? What did house trained mean? Didn't pet owners want the pet to be like, yard trained or outside trained or something?

And suddenly Tweek was face to face with a tire cluttered yard. The front of the house was fading white wash, at least two decades old. The door had a hairline crack straight down the center and the doorbell was a single red wire sticking out the hole. The porch was falling inward and looked unstable. All in all it was a trashy house and Tweek didn't want to approach it.

But he had to. It wasn't like he knew a dealer, or could ever muster up the courage to approach one out of the blue. They'd probably knife him for being 'fresh' or something. And everyone knew Cartman and Kenny were two of the biggest parties in their grade. Tweek had heard they came to the last day of eighth grade after doing a hit of ecstasy.

Kenny really was his best bet.

So summoning all his courage he steeled his resolve and walked up to knock on the door. Except he never made it that far. A blur of orange came barreling around the side of the house and knocked him flat. That was all it took to set off Tweek who had been wound tighter than a tight rope over the whole thing to begin with.

Tweek instantly curled in on himself and began shrieking as loud as he could.

"Don't…wanna…..get, gah! Me! No…" he whimpered through his bursts of shrieking and moaning. He _knew _he was being irrational, pathetic and a hundred other synonyms for freakish, but he still couldn't stop.

Faintly he registered the sounds of Kenny's frantic voice. "Shit man! Shhh… it's ok. I'm not the government or whatever. Be quite dude!"

When a minute later the screams tapered off Kenny's hand was in his face and he was pulled to his feet and dragged long behind the older male.

"K-k-Kenny!" he forced out, trying to pull out of the stronger boys grip. Even with the malnourishment and sharpness of poverty Kenny still stood a respectable four inches taller than him and outweighed him by at least thirty pounds, so he was unable to escape.

Kenny ignored him until they reached the end of his street. Stopping so abruptly the smaller male was forced to run into his back before being pulled around to face him.

Raising an eyebrow at Tweek, Kenny simply waited.

"Uh… I that is… need…some….please….i gotta get….. mellow… dying… weed?" Was all Tweek managed. That was hard enough. His face was hot crimson with his embarrassment, and he found himself mortified that he had even dared ask.

What if Kenny was offended he had asked? What if he was angry? Kenny was stronger than him and scary and he hung out with Cartman, who was the most deranged and psychotic person in the whole of South Park. He would know a lot of awful disturbing ways of getting revenge.

Kenny chuckled and looked him over, taking in the twitches and one particularly violent spasm. Kenny had seen the way his eyes darted around the empty air, like he was seeing something no one else could, _which he was_. And Kenny nodded.

"Yeah you could use it man. Tell you what. Get me fifty in cash Monday and I'll get you a dime bag and everything else you need. Meet me in the parking lot at three." And with that Kenny headed off to do whatever kids with friends did now.

Tweek got the money and was instructed in how to inhale, light up, roll joints and even in how to get the best effect from his product. Everything he needed to know to be able to get high.

He had flashes of the after school specials where the older brother died in a horrible car wreck and the loving little brother and parents cried. He almost wished that were him. If he died because he was high would anyone care, or would he become one of his own statistics? Forgotten, that photo in the yearbook of someone no one could quite name.

Coffee was his savior. It kept him alert to threats and allowed him to survive on his limited sleep. Kept him relatively sane. Weed was different.

It was better than coffee.

Where the coffee gave him energy, forced his eyes to open wide, the dope got him drowsy. He was cooled and clamed enough that he didn't have to move. He could fall asleep with out worrying who's gun he would wake up to find in his face, or whether he would be able to wake at all.

He could breathe.

Nothing mattered when he was high. No worries about school or his parents or anything. It was like the world had taken a back seat. When he smoked he felt like he was just a bit closer to normal. The weed helped him be collected enough to go to school, or to gather the courage needed leave his room at all.

After that week Kenny supplied him for almost two years.

Until he was sixteen.

His parents had found his stash and proceeded with the usual rants. Except more extreme, almost violent. They had thrown him out. Told him never to come back.

He wasn't sure how he felt about that, outside of his enormous very real fear of starving to death of course.

His parents had never been warm and fuzzy, not at all. They honestly hated him. Every thing he did was a burden, wrong or right. He was useless. He was a mess. They didn't know how he was their son, which prompted him to have a many a melt down the first time he heard it wondering if he was a Martian and weather he was supposed to be plotting world domination, because he honestly didn't think he would be particularly good at that. They had never wanted a child, and if they had he certainly didn't fit their normal perfect-world picture of a child.

They had never openly abused him though. Their cutting words were the brunt of it. But that hate stung all the same. He never thought they would make him leave, at least not until college or he turned eighteen. Honestly his parents fuelled his paranoia with their promises of slave trades and warnings against strangers. He might be better off alone.

If he could survive.

In the end he showed up, pathetic and cold and miserable, on Kenny's front porch. Kenny had not even seemed surprised. Tweek had been welcomed to his room and home. He'd found a job and immediately begun saving though, the violence of Kenny's parents tore at his nerves fiercely. He'd stayed for a month before he could afford his crap apartment.

* * *

><p>It had been two whole years since he entered the endless cycle of loneliness he found himself living.<p>

In all that time he had never allowed anyone to come into his apartment, when the faucet in the kitchen leaked, he had bought a wrench rather than call a stranger. And now for some reason, he felt as if his peace was disturbed.

He rolled on his side and tried to smash a pillow over his face to block out the noises. It didn't particularly help as half of them were in his head.

He had no work, no homework, nothing to occupy his thoughts for the weekend. He would have to endure the whispers of his violated apartment for another day and a half.

try and make the best of it. Try to get to sleep at some point.

Maybe humming would drown down the noises.

If not, he could go ahead and start a pot of coffee.

* * *

><p><strong>StarGuide2011<strong>


	5. I Don't Do Monday's

**Notes: **Would you belive me if I said I had this done a million years ago? Sad stuff, the label lied to me. Promise! Now R&R or I cut you off. Please?

* * *

><p>Monday.<p>

No high school student likes Mondays, as a general rule.

Elementary school, you whined a bit, but forgot your problems once the bell for recess rang. Middle school you didn't like your teachers and complained out loud, but it was mostly for show, Middle school kids thrived on social experiences. By the time you hit ninth grade you realized what a fucking joke school was.

School was a popularity contest, a way to show off beauty or brains or how _super_ sporty you were. For most average kids high school was hell. And as the years went on you began to look forward to Friday and hate the Mondays that ended your free time with a burning passion.

Craig had honestly never really felt one way or another about a school day.

Sometimes he was pissed if the alarm clock woke him after only a few hours of sleep, or if he had a hangover. But really Craig had always found school a necessary evil and had no reason to hate it, it was simply a part of his life. But today was different.

_The beginning of the end. _His mind whispered, pessimistically.

He had to face every revelation the weekend had brought. Destroy a friendship of eight years. Upset the balance of friendship with another old friend by ruining the first friendship. Face down a bully, who while admittedly not terrifying, was an experienced fighter.

And protect some _kid. _

He awoke to the blare of his alarm entirely too close to his head. Opening his eyes he found himself face-to-face with the grey carpet of his bedroom floor. With a groan He heaved himself up over the side of his bed and flopped on his back, staring absently at the white expanse of his ceiling. He didn't bother turning the alarm off; it went off after three minutes anyway.

Staring at the ceiling and further cocooning himself in a nest of warmth he simply did not want to get up that morning. It was Monday. Time to do something. Laziness ate at him and he pondered on what would happen if he skipped school today, this whole week.

Nothing would happen.

And that was exactly the problem. Everything would continue on the same as every other day if he didn't go to school. He had to get up and _move _to make things happen.

After a few minutes of silence he threw the covers off of himself and got up. A quick shower, and fifteen minutes later, he grabbed a pair of black jeans and a black shirt. Throwing on his boots, black bomber jacket and signature blue and yellow hat, he grabbed his keys and headed to the garage.

His parents blue minivan was parked in the largest space and he assumed they'd gotten home the night before, Ruby was still at a friend's. He grabbed an extra helmet for his bike. Normally he'd pick up Clyde, but as things stood now he felt like Tweek might benefit from a ride to school. If nothing else it would set off the inevitable confrontation with Clyde.

It might be a better idea to start of confrontational, get it over with quick. The peeling off the band-aide and hoping he didn't pull out to many hairs, kind of better.

Tweek was a morning person. As much as he could be said to be a person at all, that is.

He loved the moment he knew the sky was lightening. It gave him a sense of momentary joy, knowing some of his darkest nightmares were melting away in the sunlight. The morning meant he could get out of his bed and dress, an excuse to stop forcing his eyes closed. Mornings meant fresh coffee and the beginning of a new day.

That was how he found himself, as tremulous as it was, smiling around the rim of his favorite coffee mug at the golden light streaming through his opened window. The coffee mug was black with the white lettering "Penguins are cool" across the front of it. He was seated in one of his two chairs and already dressed for the day.

His blond hair hung damp around his face, dripping slightly on the edge of his faded blue short-sleeve shirt, staining the fabric darker blue. His jeans were light blue, almost white with wear, and loose enough to hang from his hip bones. On his feet he wore his only pair of shoes that weren't worn through at the soles, a pair of black nike's with grey laces.

With his messenger bag at his feet he was almost ready to leave, one more cup of coffee and then it would be time for school.

He found his smile faltering slightly at that thought.

Monday.

Everyone seemed to be in a worse mood than usual at the beginning of a week. The more violent liked to _vent,_ or whatever they could call beating Tweek into a black and blue puddle of pain. Mondays were the most painful, Clyde especially liked to reacquaint himself with the more vulnerable parts of Tweek's anatomy.

Sometimes the healing cuts and wounds from the week before seemed to make the pain worse. The humiliation of it all was much more mortifying after a weekend of nothing but silence. The stares that went straight through him seemed more cutting after time away from them.

Swallowing the dregs of his last cup of coffee, he rinsed the cup out and grabbed his bag. Once he was out of the door he locked, jerked the handle and then _unlocked_ it. He repeated the process four times, just to make sure it was _really _locked.

_It doesn't matter; They have ways to unlock whatever they want._

His smile was nonexistent at that point. He knew a flimsy lock didn't matter, but to feel safe, _Craig violated the apartment anyway, _in his home he had to make sure it worked.

Finally he was able to let the key rest on it's string around his neck and walk down the stairs and leave, only one longing glance backward to betray his anxiety.

Because he was anxious.

In the same manner he was every day without exception. Thoughts of hopelessness and pain and _if he only went back inside and was under his blanket it would be better than this_. A deep seated sense of wrongness that permeated his entire being every time he left his house. His head filled with rambling ideas of what could happen to him, what could happen to his home, when he was in the open and exposed.

It was utterly nerve wracking.

His hand were white knuckled around the strap of his bag and his eyes were wide. Be prepared, nothing is safe. He was still weary, Craig did know where he lived, Clyde might be staking out the place so he could hit Tweek before school where someone, _not likely fucker, m_ight see. There were so many alleys and bushes and so many places to look at once.

His eyes were flashing left and right. Every streetlamp, bush, blade of grass, it was all suspect. You could never be sure of anything in South Park.

Sometimes it unnerved Tweek how easily people could walk around South Park in such a nonchalant way. Like they just didn't care.

Had they never seen Kenny fall from an air plane and splatter his guts across the freeway, and then make it to school the next day to gossip about the latest news in hell? Had they never seen the homosexual, temperamental, parental Devil in person, or his son the _anti-Christ_? Had aliens never probed any of them, abducted their cows, tried to take over their town? Did they not see the goddamned hobos littering the street corners just waiting to shank you and hock your organs for some _change_?

Because Tweek Sure as hell remembered every incident.

Sometimes it was like after the town rebuilt or after the latest Celebrity craze or national disaster the whole town was wiped clean, as if it never happened at all.

It bothered Tweek a lot.

He almost thought it was all in his head. But he knew better. Maybe the other inhabitants of South Park had the right sort of idea, after all if you block out the trauma you can't really be traumatized.

* * *

><p><strong>StarGuide2012<strong>


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